


Just like every other road, i'll run you down.

by NO2800



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Confessions, F/M, Guilt, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 13:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NO2800/pseuds/NO2800
Summary: ”Did you know that the human eye can see 2.5 millions of light-years away? We can see all the way to the Andromeda galaxy on a clear night.”He looks over to her and his heart stops for a second. Her lips are slightly parted as she cranes her neck to look at the sky. It’s faithfully blue above them, but a light shade of pink is starting to tint it over the treeline.





	Just like every other road, i'll run you down.

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii!
> 
> This is my first work, so if you you actually read it, please try to keep that in mind! (I know it's only 2k but let me live.)
> 
> I don't know where this is set, sometime after 3b I guess with !sad! Stiles and Lydia aka the original Husband and Wife lol.
> 
> Other than that, I am trash and this is unbetad because I don't know who to ask :))))))))))))) Hope you enjoy.

”Did you know that the human eye can see 2.5 millions of light-years away? We can see all the way to the Andromeda galaxy on a clear night.”

Stiles looks over to her and his heart stops for a second. Her lips are slightly parted as she cranes her neck to look at the sky. It’s faithfully blue above them, but a light shade of pink is starting to tint it over the treeline.

He likes to think that the sky gets tired at night. That she gets tired and fades before them, revealing all of the secrets she’s desperately stretching out to hide over the day. He also likes to think that Lydia is a galaxy of her own, but he doubts that any of them would be able to make her out properly. Even close up, when she’s sitting in the passenger seat of their jeep and isn’t 2.5 millions of light-years away. Or when their chests are pressed closed to hers with hearts beating fast, fast, fast inside. He may have gotten a glimpse of it once, when she kissed him on the floor of a locker-room and everything was supposed to be despair but for a few aching seconds it was air. For a few seconds everything was still and he was weightless.

“No.” He answers quietly and looks away again, focusing on the road before them. 

“No, I didn’t know that.”

The evening light paints Beacon Hills in romantic colours in front of their eyes. It’s slips through the green foliage above them and leaves prints of warmth on the asphalt. He has to consciously focus his gaze on the lines of the road ahead and will his eyes not to drift away from the light and shift into the shadows of the forest. He guesses that there’s something there to be said about him, but for the moment he feels comfortable just concentrating on the feel of the steering-wheel beneath his fingers, the smell of the jeep, Lydia’s perfume, and the route of their small trip. He feels content in not reminiscing about what might have put the dimness in his eyes and the weight on his shoulders.

Of course, that feeling isn't made to last.

“Did you know that once your brain realizes that you’re dying, it releases DMT, which is like, one of the most powerful known psychedelics and it dilates your perception of time and allowing you to live inside your own mind for hours or days even?”

He swallows at her words. A lump suddenly forming in his throat as they leave her lips. Sometimes he feels like death himself. He carries it with him everywhere he goes, an everlasting presence in his chest. 

The thing about death and loss is that everyone tells you it will heal. Everyone tells you that it gets better, but it never really does.

Most of the time, he feels like he’s adrift. Like he is treading water as the waves of it hit him. Everywhere around him lines of the vast horizon and surrounding him ice-cold water.

Most of the time, he feels like it must be evident on him. That there’s a gaping hole in his chest and how he tries to fill it with routines and habits. Something that always collapses on him when he takes a wrong turn into someone’s street, or sets the dinner table for three.

Most of the time, he is so, so tired. 

Most of the time, he feels like he is already drowning. 

“I didn’t.” He answers, his hands gripping the wheel harder and his voice barley a whisper. 

“Do you think she spent those days with us?” Lydia’s voice matches his and when he looks over he sees her turned away with her gaze steadily trained on the passing walls of green.

Stiles feels like his lungs collapse on him as he does. He knows what she’s asking. He knows she is wondering if her best friend died content, calm and somewhere else than in a dark, dirty backyard. He wipes the back of his hands over his eyes furiously. He’s the one who killed her, he shouldn’t be allowed to cry for her. He shouldn’t be allowed to mourn her, because he is the one who took her away. But he does. God knows he does. 

“I’m sorry Lydia.” 

He notices his hands are shaking and he realises he shouldn’t be driving right now. He could probably drive off the road and not notice until he wrapped the car around the trunk of a tree. So instead he steers the car off to the right and brings it to a soft halt on the side of the road. 

“I’m sorry I just need a mo-“  
“It’s fine Stiles.” She interrupts him and she sounds genuine.  
He doesn’t like that she does. She should hate him. She shouldn’t be in this car with him, but he is selfish. So selfish that he lets her climb into it and go on these usually quiet drives with him. 

He lets his hands drop into his knees and folds them into fists to stop them from trembling. He can’t look at her. He’s selfish as in letting her climb into his car with him, and he is a coward in how he can’t meet her eyes when he feels them on him. He looks out the window instead.

He doesn’t really know where they are. He doesn’t even know how long they’ve been driving to be honest. His dad never asks anymore, and Lydia never did to begin with. 

Sometimes, they pretend that they aren’t broken on these drives. Sometimes they pretend that they are painfully normal and they turn the radio on and sing along to all of the Top 40 Hits and buy ice-cream and she smiles at him with rosy cheeks and they pretend that they are on their way to falling in love. It’s a silent understanding between the two of them those times. She smiles at him and he smiles at her and she sings to Taylor Swift and he licks a long stripe along the side of his cone where it has started to drip. Afterwards he drops her off without a word and can’t bear to look at her the next day in school until she lets her hand cover his at lunch.

They always pretend in some ways though. They always pretend that they are going for a drive and doesn’t mention the fact that they are running from the ominous shadows that haunt them even in their dreams. They always pretend that they’re fine like this. They always pretend that they are really fine as friends and nothing else. Although hands brush and stares linger and he thinks she’s the epiphany of a Coldplay song about love. He’s too shattered to figure out how to tell her that he has this urge to kiss the inside of her thigh where she’s ticklish.

It’s fine. 

He doesn’t think she hates him, but he wishes she would. Please dear god Lydia hate me, he thinks.  
He flinches as her small hands comes to rest ontop of his, but lets her. He closes his eyes as she draws small circles into his skin and his fingers slowly relax out of their stiff positions.

“Never have I ever blamed you.” She singsongs from her seat and he turns suddenly towards her. She is already facing him.  
“What?” His voice sounds strangled and she meets his eyes with the most patient expression. Hate me. Please.  
She takes his limp hands into her own, her skin is soft against his own burning one. 

“I know it wore you’re face Stiles. I know that you see that face every day in the mirror, even though you try to avoid it.” She smiles softly at that and lets one of her hands push his hair off his forehead. His eyelids flutter at the contact.  
“But it wasn’t you. You’re here with me. Just as you where there with me then.” Her hands slips down to his chest and lands right over where his heart is pumping. She must feel how much he wants her, right there underneath the palm of her hand. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. When he blinks tears fall down his cheeks. She wipes them away.  
“I’m sorry.” He repeats. 

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” She answers and something inside of him breaks.

“I’m sorry Lydia.” He leans forward covering his face with his hands at the same time as she wraps her arms around him. 

He rests his face against her chest as he takes a few shuddering breaths. It feels too much for a couple of moments, but he calms down soon enough, yet he can’t bear to straighten up. Instead he winds his arms around her middle and she keeps her fingers stroking through his hair. Don’t hate me, he thinks. Please god, do not hate me. I couldn’t bear it, he thinks. He doesn't voice any of this out loud. Doesn't think there is a need to. Him and Lydia always found ways to speak without uttering a single word.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he thinks he stops hating himself so much. Because how could he allow this body and person that is also him to love something like her so much and still let it be so damaged? He doesn’t want to be the wreckage car to match her abandoned house. He want’s their garden to bloom. He wants their house to be a home. A home with worn in couches, favourite mugs and an unmade bed upstairs. He wants them to be.

They stay like that for a long time.

Night-time comes slowly around them. He likes their silent. Just as he likes their non-silent. He likes the way she is demanding in her presence and the way her hair falls after she’s curled it in the morning. He likes how she looks at him sometimes.

It’s almost dark around them when she speaks up again. 

“Did you know that the feeling of butterflies in your stomach is caused by the body’s fight-or-flight response as adrenaline starts pumping?”

He breathes against her skin and considers the fight-or-flight response going off inside of him as he does. 

“I did.” He answers. His voice is raspy and rumbles deep in his throat after being quiet for so long.  
“Did you know-“her voice is suddenly breathy and he finally raises his head to look at her again, only to find himself staring at an endless depth of green. A forest. He wants to get lost. She looks terrified, and he feels it. It aches inside of his ribcage as he looks at her. She is so, so close and she is smiling at him. It’s closed-lipped and small and sad and it breaks his heart. She is so beautiful. 

“Did you know that I love you?” she says finally and time stops for a moment. When it starts again he feels entirely calm. He feels like he isn’t carrying a ton on his shoulders and he feels like maybe, maybe he could be good enough for her someday. He feels like he’s gulping in a fresh breath of air, like he isn’t drowning.

“I think so.” He answers. His voice almost breaks and he lifts his hand as he says it to stroke her cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. It’s completely silent around them. A bird chirpes and there's the sound of the car in the distance. But completely silent in other ways. She turns her head and presses her lips against his wrist and when she turns back he suddenly leans forward and kisses her. 

And it’s so far from pretending, so real that he wonders for a second if he’ll ever be able to stop kissing her. And a moment later, when she sighs against him and moves her lips to meet his, he breifly also wonders if that would be so bad.

He wants their garden to bloom and their house to have an unmade bed upstairs. 

He feels like he might've just came home.


End file.
